


Camping

by Hino



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Also focuses more on the describing stuff instead of dialogue, Bit of fluff here, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hino/pseuds/Hino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saturday nights are ceasefire nights.<br/>They are also camping nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Camping

Saturday nights are ceasefire nights.  
They are also camping nights.

Sniper packs the day before, skipping the Friday night celebratory shower in favour of rolling up campfire supplies and a swag. He’d pack a sleeping bag instead, but he knows how mother nature likes to toy with the unprepared. After that, it’s his favourite bow and the few lucky arrows that somehow always land a target. A few more little snacks, some firestarters and a sprinkling of trinkets and he’s good to go.

He’s gone before dinnertime, vanishing in the middle of arguments about who’s cooking. The soft rumble of his camper van is lost beneath their conversations and he’s long gone before anyone turns to pin him with dinner duty. Crimson skies stretch for miles and tinges of black hide behind the horizon when he pulls over, content with the lack of civilization. The fire’s barely starting when he places an arrow in his bow and stalks off to find dinner for the night, burning low by the time he’s out of sight.

He’ll come back with a rabbit or two if he’s lucky and that’s when he’ll see the silhouette sitting in the driver’s seat, too fancy to sit on the dirt like everyone else.  
“Spy,” he’ll greet as he sets down the rabbits, opening the door to the back of the van and pulling out the swag and knives. The Frenchman will say nothing, only stepping out of the driver’s side and standing by the fire where warm orange illuminates the blue of his suit.

They know they’re not meant to be social. They’ve seen it with Demo and Soldier, watched as the friendships were torn apart, but neither care about the whole proxy war, or how it’s a coverup to gather Australium. They’re getting paid and it’s experience that can be used elsewhere.  
Sniper sets out the bedroll and Spy takes his place on it, watching idly as the rabbits are skinned and cleaned. Twenty minutes later, dinner will be well on its way and he’ll watch the flames with the Australian at his side, a comfortable silence between them.

Soft radio tunes fill the air when they eat. Sniper rips the meat from the bone while Spy delicately cuts it free. The Australian laughs at him and wipes the grease onto his sleeve, laughing harder when Spy’s face screws up at the sight. Sniper buries the bones when they’re done and Spy rummages in the back of the van for the wine, pouring them a glass. As the bottle lessens, as do their hesitations and soon they’re talking, memories of the week or some letter from home finding their place around the fire. Spy talks almost as fast as Scout and Sniper lets him vent. It’s unprofessional on both their parts to talk so openly, but neither quite care after six years of an unending war.

The fire’s low when Sniper decides to retire for the night. Spy stands and allows the bushman to slip in under the heavy material, thick enough to keep the chilly desert night away.  
“I don’t have a bed,” Spy says, as if he ever brings one.  
“You can sleep in the van,” Sniper answers, as if he ever says otherwise.  
Spy climbs into the driver’s seat and the radio turns off as they both try to sleep, only the call of wildlife and the crackle of the fire keeping them alert. It only takes ten minutes before Sniper pulls back the thick material and calls for Spy to slip in. The Frenchman wastes no time, he knows it’s warmer in there; they’ve done this before. He leaves his shoes in the van and slips into the warm bedroll, asleep on Sniper’s chest before he’s even zipped it up. The Australian doesn’t mind though, more warmth, the better.

Spy’s the first one up in the morning. Despite his utter dislike for the outdoors, he’s preparing the fire and creating bacon and eggs, from what Sniper can smell. By the time the Australian rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up, there’s a plate sitting beside the swag. He pulls up his knees, giving Spy room to sit and eat with him. The radio’s playing again, but this time it’s tuned into the base wavelength. The Administrator likes to think it’s secure but when you’ve had so much time to figure out how to tune in, it’s just like another station.  
This morning it’s the RED base and Sniper motions for Spy to be quiet as the voices come through. Sometimes it’s just banter, other times quiet conversations about the weather. Today, it’s a letter from Scout’s Ma. Demo is the one reading it and he inserts little comments alongside the words, making the rest of the team laugh and causing Scout to cry out in embarrassment and shame. Sniper and Spy join in laughing too, even though they are unheard by the others. It’s cathartic, letting themselves feel like that. Spy packs the van while Sniper sits in the driver’s seat, warming up the engine and letting the hot air chase away the morning chill.

Their drive back is quiet, regular radio stations doing all the talking for them. Spy catches Sniper tapping out the tunes on his knee. The Frenchman turns up the volume, grinning when he sees the man beside him get into the rock that’s blaring through the van, shaking it more than the uneven ground beneath the wheels. The professionalism of their silence is gone now, replaced with the familiarity of two friends, the unending desert and good music. Sniper’s deep singing voice comes through after a moment and Spy meets him with a higher pitch, meeting in a strange harmony, a contrast to their battle roles.

The disguise is up by the time they pull into the garage where Engineer is busy working on his truck. To enemy eyes, Spy looks like Scout. A poor choice, in Sniper’s opinion, but it was a rush job, considering they only spotted the Texan when the engine was off.  
“Thanks for the lift,” Spy says in a flawless imitation of the Boston boy Sniper gives a nod and Spy’s out of the car, running out of the garage and around the thin wire fence to his own side of the base.  
“I’m not telling anyone,” Engie says as he turns back to his truck and Sniper gives him a heartfelt thanks as he unpacks the van and lugs it all back into the base, passing the real Scout as he darts into the garage for a beer and to complain.

Next Saturday, he’ll find himself at the van again, packing.  
This time, he’ll find another swag packed beside his.  
Whether it’ll get used or not, that’s something he’ll have to wait and see.


End file.
